


interlude 1.1

by pinkgrapefruit



Series: interlude [1]
Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 12:15:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18315083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkgrapefruit/pseuds/pinkgrapefruit
Summary: The five times Brooke kissed Vanjie to calm her down, and the one-time Vanjie kissed Brooke.(or, five times brooke has to pretend his universe isn't imploding and the one time it is)





	interlude 1.1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank @formercongressman for being a fucking fantastic beta in my sad, sad quest to write branjie vignettes.  
> As usual, all work is my own and although this is based on real people, both the characters and the story are my own interpretation and therefore fully fabricated. Enjoy!

**_The 5 times Brooke kissed Vanjie to calm her down, and the one-time Vanjie kissed Brooke_ **

1.

_ [episode one] _

 

She’s ecstatic and  _ god  _ he can see why. Between the two of them, they collectively slayed the first challenge and she looks on the verge of tears. Her chest glitter is mixing with the sweat from awful studio lighting and her eyebrow might be slipping but she’s just so happy. None of it matters now.

 

He pauses for a moment to watch her, and he knows that this might not continue but it’s such a beautiful sight and to never see it again would hurt. He vows to commit the contours of her face in this face at this moment to memory, so he can flick back through them like a scrapbook, discerning the good from the bad. 

 

She looks over to him, the twinkle in her eye a congratulation on his success, but more so, a challenge. Like she knows he’s been staring. In truth, he knows she’s been staring too. He’s sure that the producers will make them voice over these moments in sugary anecdotes and play their blossoming whatever like a fiddle for views, but he just can’t bring himself to care. Because she’s so  _ happy _ .

 

He takes her challenge, later in the werkroom when it's quiet and colder and the glitter and the makeup have all washed away. They’re pseudo-alone on their couch in the corner - everyone else crowded at the other end of the room, obscured by tables or out in the smoking area absorbing the fresh air into their clogged pores. She looks at him the same way she did in Untucked, stares with her glistening eyes and starts to cry because  _ ‘I never thought I’d get this far, I don't know how I'm still here’.  _ He leans in and savours the feeling of her stuttering breaths on his chin, the scent of powder and strong makeup remover that cloud her from his vision. He hyper-focuses on the crease above her lip that looks so good. He knows there are tears rolling freely down her cheeks as he places one hand to steady himself and takes another deep breath of her.

 

When their lips touch it's warm and soft and nothing like he’s ever felt before. In an instant he feels like he can see their future, he can watch like a spectator in his own life, and he lets himself melt into her as they become one to fit the contours of the couch and each other. Her breathing instantly calms, because nothing about this kiss is passion or fury or anger. It’s just sweet and reassuring and everything she needs; he’s everything she needs.

 

2.

_ [january twenty nineteen] _

 

The trailer just went up and she’s terrified. He heart is pounding and her head is spinning and  _ god _ she needs everyone to shut up but no one is talking. She’s locked herself in a bathroom stall somewhere in the World of Wonder building where everyone is getting set up to film their Meet the Queens live stream, and honestly, she’s just praying no one finds her. She’d gotten about ⅔ through her makeup before the panic overtook her in its entirety, but it's swallowing her whole and it's terrifying.

 

She’s uncertain still as to why this is affecting her the way that it is. It shouldn't, of course, because she’s done it all before, but this time is just so different. The first time around she had nothing but a legacy to uphold and a quick wit. She came out of it a broken person but  _ damn _ she learned. She took everything she got from 30 seconds on television and built herself a career out of it. This time, she’s come out of it with solace, dignity, and a fine looking Canadian. She has a life now, pets, and a man who takes her as she is and she loves him for it. Plain and simple, she loves him like she’s never loved another person, and the fear of losing that to the global tours and shows and flashing lights... it scares her.

 

She hears the door open before she sees his shadow. It looms over the stall door and fragments like shattered glass when it hits the light. She can't find the stability to talk, though, so her breathing carries on in its brutal staccato, harshly shallow and burning.

 

He taps quietly on the door, knowing she needs space but just wanting to help her. God knows they’ve been doing this long enough now that he knows just what to do. He momentarily wonders why she didn't just come to him, but he remembers his own excitement towards the day and knows that she didn't want to ruin it for him. Briefly forgetting the current situation, it warms his heart to know that she thought of that.

 

She doesn't have to speak when she slowly opens the stall. He knows her well enough to be able to tell what’s going on, and she knows he wouldn’t push anyway. Instead, he just pulls her into his arms in a tight hug, tells her he loves her in actions, not words. His nose grazes her fade, breath tickling the stubble. She leans into him willingly, her own nose nuzzling at his chin. He smells like always, like cigarettes and coffee and Fenty lipsticks, and it soothes her soul like menthol and tea.  

 

When their lips meet it's not for show, for anyone but themselves. Even though they’re in the same environment that's always exploited them, they take this moment for them. She knows that no matter what happens, they've still got this.

 

3.

_ [august twenty eighteen] _

 

It’s 3 am on a warm and windy night in New York as he walks into the AirBnB they’re sharing for the week. He’s so glad that for once since they’ve returned from Drag Race they can share the same four walls for longer than a night, can let themselves be a couple again. His gig had run long and he’s angry that he’d missed her going to bed but he’s here now. As quietly as he can without waking her, he places the keys on the counter by the door, snakes into the kitchen and pours a glass of water. Sneaking back through to the lounge he rummages for a second in her rucksack to find the Advils she always keeps. He pops two out and places them next to the glass on the table. Contemplating writing himself a note (because he always questions the Advil in the mornings) he remembers that for once, he’s not alone. Tonight there doesn't have to be a note. 

 

_ ‘Crap’  _ he mutters to himself as he crosses the wooden floor with a creak. He pauses. Listens.

 

As he strains though, he can hear soft whimpers coming from their closed room. All attempts at silence are abandoned as he rushed to the door, pushing it open as quietly yet quick as simultaneously possible. He wants so desperately to be imagining things. He knows, quite quickly, that he isn't.

 

Brooke moves around the bed. It’s roomy when you consider the size of the apartment but they both knew the second they saw it that they wouldn't need that much. Not when they sleep like koalas, clinging to each other till morning.

 

When he realises she’s still asleep he can't tell if he’s glad or not, but hearing her soft cries in the night breaks him. He just wishes this wasn’t her burden to carry alone. Wishes he could split the anxiety and the panicking and walk up the mountain together. Luckily he’d had the wherewithal to shower and de-drag at the venue and he’s dressed for comfort. All of this is good news to him as he drops the last of his bags at the end of the bed and slowly, carefully, sits on the edge. Swinging his legs on, he leans back so his chest is level with her head and draws her into him. She goes quiet as she burrows into his chest, so small in that moment and, as he presses a long, protective kiss to the top of her head - he promises to never let her go again.

 

4.

_ [episode four] _

 

He follows her over in Untucked as she panics to herself. It’s the least he could do, he muses, as she frets over something he feels is trivial. But even less than a fortnight in, he knows not to argue or point it out. He’s all too aware that she’s experiencing this differently to everyone else, he’ll just have to accept that.

 

The tension is seeping out of her and he can feel it, hot on his skin. Her body has a quiet shake to it as if she’s vibrating softly, but he knows that the sweetness of that imagery is nothing compared to what is happening. He’s seen it before in his friends. In Courtney before her first drag coven show. In Nina the first time they met. He's seen it in himself before every performance since he was 7. But despite his exposure to it, he hates it on her. The twisted look on her face pains him as she tries to sort what she’s doing and all he can give her is encouragement, full of conviction and maybe the naivety of someone falling in love.

 

_ ‘Out of the three of them I know you were, I feel like you were given the least harsh critiques’ _

 

He’s hoping he said it with enough persuasion that she’ll believe him. She needs to believe him because he can’t keep watching her tear herself apart like this without knowing that he did everything in his power to stop it.

 

_ ‘Fuck that shit’ _

 

Her reply is short but definitive and frankly, he’d be laughing at her bluntness if he didn't know that it was a defence mechanism. He brushed the blonde hairs from her chin, takes a moment to admire the wig on him and notes that it’s a fantastic look. The orange is, too. The whole thing is something he’ll bring up later.

 

‘ _ Honestly, they gave you like almost no negative critiques… and you were killing it with the dancing’ _

 

He feels it necessary to equivocate on his beliefs. He won’t allow her for a second to believe that he’s not 100% supportive and confident in her abilities. She just makes soft humming noises and he can hear ‘Living in America’ booming from the Apple headphones that she’d haphazardly shoved into her ears. It’s at this moment he realises that he’s not going to get anything else out of her and so he just pulls her into his arms, laying a gentle peck at the corner of his mouth, not letting his lipstick mar her cheek. She turns her head and he can see the pain in her eyes as she puckers her lips at him. He leans down and captures them, knowing that when he pulls away his lips will be tacky with gloss and glittering a pleasant gold. It looks good on her but it's not the most subtle thing. 

 

As the producers call cut on the conversation they weren't even directing, Brooke smiles to himself. He knows that they’ve just secured her safety, knowingly or not, and he’s just grateful that they will have more time.

 

5.

_ [march twenty nineteen] _

 

He’s in the cab back from his gig with Nina when she calls him. It’s late there but not too late in comparison to the pitch black 4 am they can see out of the windows. Their seven-seater taxi feels too crowded, full of sweat and drag queens and he feels like this conversation will need privacy. He knows that even if it does he won't get any.  

 

She’s drunk in a t-shirt dress and a yellow waist length wig muttering about instagram stories or love and he knows she misses him. It's evident purely from the fact she’s facetiming him on the break between her sets, in a storage closet. If that wasn't enough, she’s spilling secrets left, right and centre and if he was sober he’d be terrified, but honestly, it's so good to see her face and it feels good to laugh with her again. She holds off on the sobbing till he gets into his own room (although she isn't shy on imitating him, screeching  _ ‘I have two kitties’ _ at an ungodly pitch for Brooke’s own waning drunkness).

 

When he's alone though, she begins to cry, it’s hard to make out on the grainy facetime that will never do her face justice for him. They use it too often to truly dislike it, but it's not a substitute for holding each other on cold nights like these when they're both too lonely to be alone. If he were to write a list of things he misses, he would list her at the very top, leave a few lines blank, and then write poutine. But even that was hard to miss in Canada, so really she is all he longs for and  _ fuck _ it hurts. The incomparable yearning he feels burns into his very soul, and he wonders how cruel the world must be to have found him someone so perfect when they’re both required to be everywhere but together all the time. 

 

She brings him back to the present as she tries to blot her running foundation with a receipt she found in her pocket. He wants to reach through the screen and brush them off her soft skin himself. Even though they’ll both be together by the end of the day, it hurts that they’re so far apart now.

 

They cry together, when he’s taken off his makeup and hung his outfits up nicely on the back of the door. They cry for the naivety they had when he thought they would be okay doing this. Before they’d spent weeks on opposite sides of the country. They knew it would get worse but  _ god _ they hoped it would get better first because she can’t stand this anymore, and he isn’t far behind her.

 

Later, when her show’s done and she’s home and it’s almost the afternoon in Canada where he is, he talks her to sleep and maybe in his fantasy he kisses the tears off her cheeks till she calms down. He places a meaningful kiss to her forehead and turns off facetime, knowing that when she wakes up he’ll be next to her.

 

*

 

1.

_ [march twenty nineteen] _

 

She rolls over to the sound of her alarm going off. It’s almost 3 in the afternoon, which means she has about an hour to get her ass out of bed and pick him up from the airport. She realises she may be cutting it close. In the shower, she uses up the remainders of his favourite shampoo, knows he loves how it smells when he presses his nose deep into the unruly mop of hair she keeps trying to maintain. She puts ice compresses under her eyes as she eats what can only be described as a pseudo-breakfast (because it is neither eaten at the time of breakfast nor does it contain any real breakfast foods, but it does the same job), and she almost forgets to take them off as she leaves the house. The hope is that they removed the last remnants of her crying herself to sleep but frankly, the hangover might have done that too.

 

The drive is mostly uneventful, although she flips off an unusual amount of drivers in the baking Los Angeles heat. She’s bouncing in the driver's seat by the time she arrives and she rushes into arrivals with less dignity than she afforded herself going home first because she’s so excited she might burst and her man is coming home.

 

He’s hard to miss, a 6’3 Canadian ballerina in a crowded airport and his thousand bags help her to spot him almost immediately. She does a quick once over of what she’s wearing as she fiddles with the bandana around her neck, knowing it will make Brooke happy (and also so mad). It takes the very little restraint she posses not to scream when he runs over to her. Suddenly all his bags are on the ground and she’s up in the air, feet dangling, and they’re both crying again because the feeling of each other will never get old. 

 

She’s engulfed in the smell of that one time that he made seafood at 3 am and they laid on the street til dawn. The time she pulled him into the Florida ocean when all he wanted to do was get Panda Express and watch TV. The smell of airports and long nights and coffee and menthol and shit red wine and good red wine and everything all at once. He smells like love and he smells like home and she kisses the tear tracks on his face because she fucking can.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm genuinely really proud of this, I hope you enjoyed it! if you've got any feedback/ constructive criticism you can catch me in the comments here or over on tumblr @pink-grapefruit-cafe. I love you all and your feedback truly motivates me to keep writing xx


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